


Wrong Timing?

by placidings



Category: Noli Me Tangere & Related Works - José Rizal
Genre: M/M, beep beep, i will go down with this ship my friends, nyork, penilaez, sexual tension up ahead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 01:16:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10525848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placidings/pseuds/placidings
Summary: Something's wrong with Placido, and Juanito can't figure out why.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I am in love with this prompt.
> 
> It's the whole killer/victim killer chooses not to kill AU

There’s something terribly wrong with him, and the sad thing is; even though we’ve spent more time together than the both of us would care to admit, I still can’t figure him out. Sure, I can tell that something’s off by the general tension in his muscles, the constant ticking of his jaw, and the vacant, glazed, yet still fierce stare. His reasons, however, are entirely unknown to me.

I can’t figure out why I’m so bothered.

Maybe it was because Placido looked so fucking hot sitting across me? Maybe it was because I can’t stop staring at the curve of his jaw, now very prominent because he wouldn’t stop gritting his god damned teeth?

Maybe it was because it was _me_ whom he was staring at; his deep eyes even deeper with emotions I can’t put my finger on?

It’s unsettling. I’ve been trying to eat my sandwich for fifteen minutes now, but the churning in my stomach made it hard for me to swallow anything.

My food. Or my unrequited feelings. Or the fact that I’m weak as hell, and he, of all people, is the reason.

His silence is not new, but this surely is.

I take a bite casually, even though the bread felt like mushy cardboard in my mouth. “I always knew you liked me.”

The trance he was in broke. His face melts into that of pure surprise–a deer in the headlights. He blinks at me a few times as if he was struggling to comprehend what I just said. “What?”

It’s weird. He’s usually the one with the snappy comebacks that leave my insults (and insides?) a burnt pile on the floor.

I snort. “And I thought I was the dumbass in this relationship.”

That seemed to have shaken him awake. He snorted, shaking his head, putting up that stone-cold facade once again.

“You still are.”

I jab his cheek. For some reason. “Hey, I was joking. No need to get personal.”

He swats my hand away. Did I imagine it, or did his fingers linger on my hand longer than usual? “Aren’t we always, though?" 

_Now_ something is definitely up. This is the guy who, in every opportunity he gets, denies his connection with me–which is ridiculously painful but strangely amusing on my part–and here he is, using the pronoun "we” while talking to me about us? I am a little winded–or “shook”, as most people would say nowadays–yet a small part of me seems to have ignited hearing his voice, recognizing the both of us. We. Him and I. Me and him. Placido and Juanito.

“Ha. ‘We’. I always knew you liked me, Placidobabes.”

There it is again, the deer-in-the-headlights face, the wide eyes, the ajar lips, the furrowed brows. I am as shocked as he is. Did this mean…?

His lips began moving without saying anything. I wanted, needed him to regain his composure; show me he’s numb. I cannot deal with this Placido. It’s like I don’t even know him! Who knew this asshole had feelings? Actual emotions other than pissed off, angry, and mad? It’s seriously fucking with my head. And heart.

“How did you know?” His voice is shaking. Was Placido coming undone right in front of me?

“What?” My voice came out louder than it’s supposed to. “You’re not yourself today, Placido. What is wrong with you?”

“Shit,” he whispers, breaking his stare and running his hands through his hair. Another nervous tick. After a solid five seconds of staring at the wooden tabletop, he suddenly turns to me. I am taken aback by the sheer rawness of whatever it is that lived in his eyes right now: a raging fire, burning embers, hot coal. Dark, yet light at the same time. Straddling the line between hot and cold.

Huh. Who knew Placido could make a poet out of me? Isagani would be so proud.

Next thing I knew, his fingers were clutching my wrist, and we were both rushing out of the cafe.

-

I swallow my heartbeat as Placido paces in front of me. After half-dragging me beside him, we ended up in his empty dorm room; where he proceeded to dump me on his computer chair. I didn’t dare move. He looked dangerous; the way he looked like when he walked out of Professor Millon’s class a week ago. He’s in a world of his own, totally distant and separate from ours, and it’s terrifying. What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do when he’s standing right in front of me but seems to be walking somewhere I can’t reach?

“I’m sorry.” I startle. His voice is a low rumble, rising up from the depths of his throat–his chest. “I’m sorry, I–I can’t do it.”

“Wait,” My eyes search the room for places to run to and/or hide in, just in case I witness an explosion. “Why? Why are you apologizing? Is this because you realized you’ve insulted me far too much or—”

“I’m not joking, Juanito.” He stares at me once again, his eyes dark clouds and lightning; his words electric. The air is charged with a tension that is threatening to destroy the both of us.

“Then what is it, Placido? What are you apologizing for?” I clench my fists to stop them from shaking. This is a different terrain I cannot tread, and it’s igniting a fire I doused ages ago, threatening to burn me again.

We stare at each other, completely silent for a solid minute.

“I–” Placido swallows, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he does. “I–I can’t do it.”

I look up, meeting his eyes. Vulnerable, tormented, turbulent–emotions I never thought I’d see in his eyes.

“Do what?”

Placido moves without making a single sound–at that moment, all that I heard were our bated breaths and the pounding of my heart in my chest. I notice his shoulders shift, reaching for something in his back pocket, but I keep my eyes on his face. His eyes, dark and deep with something I cannot understand. His brown skin flushed and glistening with sweat.

He averts his gaze. I follow the direction of his eyes, down to his hands.

Terror–that was the only word that could describe what I felt. In his hands was a pistol, probably locked and loaded.

“Kill you.” He stares at me, and my blood runs cold. “They want me to kill you, Juanito.”

I take a step backward, which seemed to have shaken him a bit. Placido takes a step towards me, a hand outstretched as if his unarmed hand is going to pacify me, yet I flinch.

Then I do the only reasonable thing to do for someone who’s in my position: I bolt.

“Juanito!” Placido cries. I struggle to open the door, my palms slipping off the knob. My hands shake, slick with sweat. I knew I wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but damn it, I didn’t think I’d die just because I couldn’t open a god damn door to save my life.

Placido grabs my shoulders, forcing me around to face him.

“Don’t touch me!” I cry out, shoving his hands away, pressing myself against the door. He shrinks back, regret in his face. “I knew you hated me, Placido, but kill me? How can you do this?”

“I can’t do it, Juanito!” He shouts, running his fingers through his hair. With a start, I realize he’s tossed the gun aside. He stood before me, unarmed. “And this isn’t because of hatred, this is supposed to be a warning. You have to warn your father or else you will all be killed in the crossfire.”

My head is spinning. Anger, fear, confusion, and dear god, even frustration–because he was so fucking hot when he’s angry–were the only things I could feel. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, what was going on. “My father? What does this have to do with my father?”

“He’s involved in a corruption plot that he wants to end.”

“Who’s he?” I am growing frantic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I can’t–” He pauses to take a breath. “I can’t tell you. Just–just ask your father.”

Silence reigns above us. My thoughts race at a hundred miles per hour, and I can actually feel myself going faint. Apart from that, I’m confused: I know this isn’t the time to think about such trivial things, especially when I’ve just found out that Placido holds some sort of vendetta against me and my family, but did this mean I actually meant something to him? That this friendship–relationship–that existed between us isn’t just that of two people who needed each other for practical reasons?

“I thought you hated me,” I whisper, not daring look at his face. “Why can’t you kill me?”

Placido takes a deep breath. When he speaks, his voice shakes. “Because I–”

I stare at him expectantly, watching his face, his eyes for any betrayal of the emotions he can’t bring himself to tell me. I needed answers. 

“What? I don’t have all day, Placido.”

He takes a deep breath.

Then to my surprise, he surges forward; his hands pressing my hips against the door, his lips crashing into mine. I am pinned against his body–his heart is thudding through his chest and against mine, his hands are clutching at me as if letting go would kill him, and his lips are soft and warm and so fucking _good_. God damn, he’s kissing me. _Me!_ Of all people! Wasn’t he supposed to kill me just a few seconds ago?

I am weak. But my fear reigns supreme over what I’m feeling–warmth and emotions and feelings and questions I’ve harbored for the past three years–and I push him away.

The surprise, the hurt, the confusion in his eyes, meet the shock and fear in my own. If were going to be completely honest, I wanted to kiss him again, feel the words he can’t bring himself to tell me on my lips; yet I turn my back to him, finally opening the door.

“The next time you do that, make sure it isn’t just minutes after you pulled a gun out on me.”

Right now, I had to run.

**Author's Note:**

> Placido why


End file.
